


The Fundamental Laws of Fan Fiction

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: At Least to Dean, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel in the Bunker, Chuck Ships It, Chuck is God, Dean Gets Therapy, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Meta, Metafiction, References to Canon, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Spoilers, Therapist Chuck, Therapy, Traitor Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine your OTP in therapy. Imagine them gaining the skills and perspective they need to cope with the trauma of everything you (and the canon writers) have put them through. You awful, awful people.</p><p>(Sorry, Dean and Cas. You guys are just so cute!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fundamental Laws of Fan Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt in description from otpprompts.tumblr.com.
> 
> My intention with this fic was in no way to offend people who ship Wincest. It's just a joke referencing back to the scene from 4.18 when Sam and Dean find out about it. Feel free to ship whatever your heart desires. This is a judgment-free zone.

 

 

“I told you, Doc, they’re awful, _awful_ people.”

The doc, a man in his early to mid-forties going by the autumn-colored hairs raking a neat pile around his mouth, dons a golden jubilee vintage coat over a navy blue button down and black jeans. A smile crosses his face better put to use by del Toro’s character in _The Usual Suspects_ during the lineup scene _,_ but it’s too fleeting to place its origin. “Mhm. And, uh, Chuck is fine, Dean. What do you mean by awful, how so?”

Dean says, “They’re lunatics,” just as Castiel blurts, “It’s not—”

“Castiel.” Doc Shurley, _Chuck,_ raises his hand with his palm facing Dean. “Is there something you’d like to say?”

Cas shifts on the lumpy couch to meet Dean’s hard gaze. He looks scared almost. Like Dean’s going to stab him in the chest (again) if he so much as swallows the noticeable lump in his throat. “It’s okay, Cas,” Chuck says, eyeing Dean with long crow’s feet that remind him of Cas’s wings before they were clipped. “Go ahead.”

“It’s not that they’re awful,” Cas amends shakily, but ocean nonetheless eyes drowning Dean’s thoughts with the power of a thousand tidal waves, “they’re just… expressing themselves… _creatively.”_

“Jesus Christ.”

“Dean,” Chuck warns, blearily blinking back the remnants of salt around the rim of his last margarita.

“No, it’s pornography, Cas! Sad, sappy pornography, but pornography nonetheless! Not to mention a total invasion of our privacy! It’s bad enough having Sam snooping around the Bunker like Jennifer Jason Leigh—”

Chuck seems interested now as he purses on the edge of his sofa. “Wait. You said invasion of _our_ privacy.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes, “they write us in places where we shower, where we _sleep_. God knows how they know any of it. They even write us in places we haven’t even _been._ Like suddenly I’m a mechanic, and Cas is a teacher, and we’re going into something called ‘heat’, I don’t even know—”

“Heat is ovulation for omegas,” Cas says. “Only _one_ male can conceive. He’s the omega. Those who go into heat are subjected to the same bodily behavior as ovulating women. Unless they’re neutered before sex, of course.”

“What the _hell,_ Cas?!”

“It was an interesting read.” Cas pauses, eyes flittering to Dean again with curiosity straddled to his tone. “I apologize sincerely, Dean, I wasn’t aware of how physically abundant you are.”

Chuck, the guy they’re paying (well, technically, he and Sam and with money they won in a pool game) a hundred dollars an hour for, bites back another grin. Dean throws his rapidly heating face into the cushion, trying to smother the headache drumming behind his eye with the sweet release of death.

It doesn’t work. If it had, Dean would be downing a PBR somewhere in the Bahamas. By _himself._

He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Cas’s unsated curiosity for the internet. Ever since they got him his own laptop, Cas has been browsing _all_ the wrong things. They call Cas with a case on a Manticore, he gives him the history of Pakistan and their craze for scorpion tails. They call him about a Kappa, he tells them there are 500 species that cover salamanders alone (–he would’ve _listed_ them to had they not cut him short). They call him just to put something on the _grocery list,_ and he searches every item to a T, from the nutritional value to how much environmental input it took to make it.

He’s like Google if Google is a dorky angel trapped in the body of a forty-year-old ex-sales provider—everything Dean didn’t need to know coming straight from the mouths of cherubs in trenchcoated burritos. So it doesn’t come as a shock he stumbles across _Supernatural_ fan fiction by… what was that guy’s name?

But this Dean and Cas business is new—this coming from a guy who’s seen proof of an actual Pegasus.

“Sam?” Dr. Shurley says, turning towards the original member of the three-piece puzzle. Because that’s what they’ve always been: Team Free Will. They’ve always had each other’s backs in the face of trouble.

Except, Sam sits next to Dean, completely unaffected, judging by the way he sits pressed against the cushion. His long, QWERTY-calloused hands are folded neatly as he shrugs. “I don’t really see a problem with it. I mean, Wincest, that crap’s gotta be salted and burned ASAP, but Destiel— _Deestiel?_ CasDean?”

“CasDean?” Castiel inquires. “Is that because I—?”

“ _Can it, Cas,”_ Dean growls.

Sam continues on, “Whatever it’s called, it’s not harming anybody. Except Dean, but he gets butthurt when we’re out of canned cheese.” _Touché,_ Dean thinks. “And, like Cas said, it’s a form of creative expression. Actually, you know, when I was in college—”

“No one wants to hear about your finger paintings, Sam.”

“Did you make flowers?” Cas asks, leaning over to get a better view of Sam. That angers Dean. Not because there’s anything to be _jealous of,_ uh, no, but because Cas also happened to come across a Sastiel—Samstiel? SamCas? CasSam? CasSam. Yeapp, that’s the one. Because Sam _definitely—_

“I think Sam makes a good point,” Chuck chimes, folding his hands in the same manner. Dean feels like he’s being ganged up on by not one, but _two_ college-going crazies. “You guys have a whole network of people, fans, who love and support you. Should it matter what form that support comes in?”

“We don’t even _know_ these people!” Dean protests. “We didn’t ask for their-their love or support or whatever the hell else the Hallmark says! We just want to be left _alone._ ”

“I don’t.”

All eyes focus on Cas, but Dean’s the first to speak: “What the hell do you mean you don’t?”

“I mean,” Cas says, biting his cheek as he faces Dean, voice raspier than usual, “I don’t want to be left alone. I’m actually quite thankful these so-called ‘fan fictions’ exist.”

Dean shakes his head. “Why, Cas? Why on Earth would you side with those high-off-estrogen eccentrics?”

“The _ships,_ Dean. They have to be sailed.”

“The shi-what in _God’s name_ are you—?!”

Dean’s words are cut short, however, by the felt tips of Castiel’s fingers tracing racetracks on his arm before he intertwines his whole hand with the finish line.

Dean doesn’t so much as breathe during the whole second that ticks away on the overhead analog because Cas’s hand is warm and encompassing and _Cas’s hand is in his._

Despite an extra pound to his weight with Cas’s hand, Dean feels lighter. He smiles, and the blush he was trying to contain earlier gets thrown on the front page of _Us Weekly._ Cas smiles too.

Then Dean closes his fingers around Cas’s.

“Holy hellfire, Doc,” Sam breathes, “you’re a godsend.”

“Will that be cash or check?”

 

***

Chuck locks up shop early, feeling as though his work on Earth is done for the day.

And really, who could blame him? The prophecy has been fulfilled— _His_ prophecy, that is. It only took eight years, three resurrections, a near-fatal sacrifice, and a memory wipe. But hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day. (Or was it? So many countries to birth into existence, so little time.)

Besides, it’s better Dean and Castiel have each other now than ever.

 

 

Especially after the new level of shitstorm coming their way.

 


End file.
